Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 02 - The Appropriate Way

by Rohn Federbush

  Bret coughed with emotion. “I did when I was younger.

  John said, “If I didn’t say the Our Father every day, I think I’d lose my place.” He smiled at Sally in the rear mirror. “I don’t mean my job as a detective or my home. I mean where I am, where my soul resides, hopefully in harmony with my intentions.”

  “Those policemen,” Sally said, “are doing the best they know how. The prayer I say is, ‘God, I offer myself to you to build and do with me what Thou will. Grant me victory over my present difficulties so that I can bear witness to those I’m trying to help of your power, your love, and your way of life. Help me to do Thy will always.’”

  John interrupted. “We need to wait for things to work out sometimes.”

  Sally felt like a two year old, wanting everything to be righted immediately. Then her detective instincts slipped back into gear. When did the fire start? “Let’s go by the police station, John instead of taking Bret home.”

  “Right,” John said. “Matilda and her father will need a ride home.”

  Sally wasn’t as interested in being of service as she was in learning the answers to a growing list of questions. “Why was Tim Hanson at the fire?”

  “He is a police officer,” Bret said.

  John picked up the clue. “How did he get there before the sheriff?”

  In the rear-view mirror Sally caught John’s attention and motioned with her finger over her lips not to say anymore in front of Bret. She needed to bounce ideas off John when they were alone. “Do you want to pick up your car and follow us?”

  “Yes.” Bret said, rather unconvinced of the suggestion. “I’ll do that.”

  Shoveling the snow and melting ice away from Bret’s garage door took more time than Sally planned, but when they were finally alone in the Honda with Bret trailing them in his yellow Cadillac, John asked, “Did Peter say something about when he got home from the airport?”

  “But he was with us last night at the reception. We didn’t meet his wife.” Sally’s mind ticked of the unanswered questions. “When did he go to Dallas? When did his wife take off her wedding ring?”

  “Maybe Sheriff Woods will have some answers?” John didn’t sound hopeful.

  “That’s the trouble with questioning people,” Sally said. “You need to know what to ask.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Kane County Courthouse, Geneva, Illinois

  County Sheriff’s Office

  Sheriff Art Woods waited for Sally and John to arrive before he interrogated Matilda Armstrong or Peter Masters, who were apparently not speaking to each other. They fidgeted and glared at each other on the other side of the mirrored window. As he waited for the Nelsons, Art propped his cold feet up on his desk. Carolyn Montgomery had called in the fire report. Thoughts of Sally as a teenager swept the scene of the dead woman’s fiery demise out of immediate focus. And then, the sad memories of his friend, Tony Montgomery, swept away the present.

  It was May in 1957. Six more weeks of the high-school year remained after Art first ran into Sally. He spotted Tony in the school’s parking lot. Tony was surrounded by a group of jocks hanging on his every word. Art sauntered over trying not to show his own eagerness. Tony stepped away from the group and clapped Art on the shoulder. “How’s the last male virgin in the senior class?” Pretending not to hear the shaming tease, the other untested boys headed for their cars. “Hey,” Art said loud enough for the departing gang to hear, “I’m closing in on your girl-friend’s buddy.”

  “Who’s that?” Art had hoped Tony hadn’t noticed.

  Tony climbed into the passenger side of Art’s mother’s old Chevy. “The librarian with glasses. Made for each other.” Tony grinned without malice. “Virgin on virgin.”

  “You’re really hung up on that virgin label.” Art grumbled as he began the long drive out west to Tony’s parents’ farm. A dreadful guilt rose in Art’s stomach. He glanced at Tony, his idol. A god to him really. Tony was smooth, unruffled by the great mystery of women.

  Dates were torture to Art, wondering when to put his arm around a girl, bumping heads trying to play kissy-face, and groping more out of curiosity than passion. He hated fending off the aggressive ones, hoping the girls wouldn’t blab how he did not allow them to play with him. He would someday, but he wanted the act to mean something. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t marry the first girl; but he needed at least to like her. And now he had offered up Sally to Tony’s dirty gristmill, like a virgin to a pagan god.

  “Drive down Dean Street to Randall,” Tony said. “You’ll get a glimpse of your honey.”

  Art obeyed and sure enough, Sally with her arms full of books was walking briskly past a small park on Dean Street.

  “Want to pick her up?”

  “Naw.” Art bluffed away his fears. “I gave her enough excitement for one day.”

  Tony eyed him. “Did you land one on her?”

  “Not yet. I’m warming her up first.” ‘Amazing,’ Art thought, glimpsing Sally’s form in the rearview mirror. She meant nothing to him other than a way to get out of paying a late library book fee; but with Tony’s prodding, she almost seemed desirable. “Where does she live?” He asked, as they neared railroad tracks.

  “Last house on the right.”

  A small, concrete-block house backed up to the tracks. Behind the house on the far side of the tracks, two iron-stamping plants fronted with brick offices tarnished the landscape.

  “Her daddy built the house,” Tony said, “with a loan from the Norris family.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He’s painting our barns, in between jawing us to death.” Tony laughed. “Name’s Denny. The cranky old man threw an open can of paint at our gander when she nipped him. Great sight though, red paint on a mad white goose. Denny said he managed farms before he started painting but his temper kept getting him fired.”

  “His daughter seems docile enough.”

  “Probably beats her.”

  Art laughed. Had she’d ever been struck? She did seem skittish, but for a blushing librarian, she carried herself well, head high, a natural grace. Art knew no one else had staked her out. He punched at Tony’s shoulder. “Maybe I should give the kid a thrill.”

  At the farm, Tony got out of the car, rubbing his shoulder. He came over to Art’s open window. A warm breeze from the barns blew acid, fecal smells into the car. Tony leaned over, grinning. “Give her something to think about before we’re off to college.”

  As he drove away, Art stared at Tony in his rear view mirror. He stood in the lane with his hand on his crotch, thrusting his hips. Once out of sight of the farm, Art stopped the car. A group of curious cows walked up to the fencerow. Reaching behind the seat, he rolled down the back windows to get rid of the manure smells. As he righted himself, his elbow hit the wheel. The cows bolted at the short blast. He waited until they regained their dignity and amble away. One cow mounted another. Maybe being in the vicinity of all these rutting animals intensified Tony’s libido.

  Sheriff Art Woods remembered deciding, at the time, he might need to rethink Tony’s influence in his life. He wished he’d heeded his own cautions. The Sheriff let his feet fall to the floor in his private office at the Geneva police station.

  A much older and wiser Sally Bianco stood in his doorway. “Is Tim here?” She asked.

  “No.” He said, slowly, knowing Sally would have a reason for asking. She was always sharp and he’d recently worked with her to find a missing abused wife. “He’s still at the scene. I asked him to check the fireplace for Mrs. Master’s wedding ring.”

  “Would Matilda be more comfortable answering your questions with me along?”

  “Sure, sure. You go ahead. The two-way glass will let me witness the answers.”

  “Bret will be here in a minute.” John stuck his head in the door.

  Sheriff Woods spoke to the desk sergeant. “Direct Mr. Armstrong to my office. We’ll be along shortly.”

  “What about her father,
Peter Masters,” Sally asked. “Is it a good idea to keep him waiting in a different room?”

  “Yes,” Sheriff Woods smiled at Sally. “Another good idea.”

  Chapter Two

  After her father left the witness room, Sally observed Matilda rubbed her forehead. “I don’t understand, I don’t understand.”

  Yes, St. Frances’ prayer about the need to understand others, a daughter should be able to figure out her own father. Across the table from her, Sally put her hand on Matilda’s arm. “Your mother is alive, somewhere.”

  Matilda took Sally’s hand, leaning over to search Sally’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

  Sally’s heart re-opened. For the first time, she believed she could provide something of value to this distraught young woman. To be of service seemed as honorable as any other road to follow God’s will. She patted Matilda’s hand. “We’ll get you through this.” Wishing she could produce a copy of Daniel Defoe’s book, she quoted a passage, “So little do we see before us in the world.... (God) does not leave his creatures so absolutely destitute. In the worst circumstances they have always something to be thankful for.”

  Matilda’s calm seemed restored. “Was that a Bible passage?”

  “Defoe’s ‘Robinson Crusoe,’” Sally admitted. “How long have you known Tim Hanson?”

  “Tim.” Matilda said without elaborating. A faint blush crept up Matilda’s throat. Matilda must have sensed the heated blood rising to her cheeks. She plucked a hair out of her eyebrow. Sally winced for her, but didn’t want to let go of the prickly question. She waited, counting off the seconds. Matilda bent down, as if studying her folded hands. Her blonde straight hair nearly covered her face. Sally could almost hear the gears in her brain racing around. She might be praying. Finally, Matilda raised her head. “I love Bret.”

  “More than Tim?” The question popped out before Sally recognized there was a reason to ask it.

  “No. Yes.” Matilda tugged at another bothersome hair in her left eyebrow. “I no longer know.” She straightened her posture and met Sally’s gaze. “How does knowing Tim relate to the fire?”

  “Tim was out there.” Sally relaxed as her brain focused on Matilda’s responses.

  “No he wasn’t. The fire department probably called Tim.” Matilda shook her head as if trying to produce more excuses. “Don’t the police always go to fires?”

  “Were you in school with Tim?” Sally shifted her gaze to give the young woman a break.

  Matilda worried her pearl necklace. “Not since eighth grade at St. Patrick’s.”

  “When did you back get together?” The answer would implicate Tim, the young man Sally had babysat while she was in high school.

  “Before I married Bret.” Matilda seemed to relax, perhaps planning how to cover up something. “My father drinks. When he drinks, people get in his way.”

  “Like your mother?”

  “Tim was called to the house. Sheriff Woods, too. More than once. Mother loves Bret. I mean she likes him as a husband for me. A stockbroker and all.” Matilda opened her eyes wider to appear more honest. “Tim’s future didn’t seem promising.”

  “But you kept Tim on the side.”

  “Well, yes.” Matilda stuck her chin out and then thought better of it. “He wouldn’t hurt a flea. Certainly not Mother.”

  “Your mother hasn’t been injured.”

  “Bret and I were married five years ago.” Matilda put her purse on the table, opened it as if searching for her keys.

  Sally recognized the defensive, stall tactic. Tim said he’d been a policeman for two years. If Matilda knew Tim before her marriage, five years ago, why did Tim join the police force two years ago?

  “I don’t know where my mother is.” Matilda even batted her eyelashes to enhance the plea for sympathy.

  “Don’t you?” Sally toned down her harsh questions. “Doesn’t she own a safe place your father isn’t privy to?”

  “She wouldn’t be there.” Matilda did seem confused. “Because Dad said he returned from Dallas.”

  “Who is in Dallas?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “Is your cell phone in your purse?” Sally asked.

  “Will it work in here?” Matilda retrieved her phone and punched in the numbers for her grandmother.

  Sally cocked her head. “Hit the speaker button.”

  “Rinehardt residence.” Was heard on Matilda’s cell phone.

  “Grandma, I …” Matilda’s throat allowed no further sound.

  “No,” the voice said, “Matilda?” Not only did Matilda’s voice fail her, now her brain seemed to shut down. “Who’s calling?” The voice sounded off-putting as if expecting to hang up on an inexperienced phone solicitor.

  “It’s me, Mother,” Matilda finally was able to say.

  “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Masters asked, and then added. “I told you Tim was a problem.”

  “No! He’s fine now!” Matilda sobbed into the phone.

  “Was there another accident?”

  Matilda stopped crying. “Not one hair on Bret’s head is harmed.” They heard Mrs. Masters sigh in relief.

  Sally reached for the phone and Matilda handed it over. “Mrs. Masters, this is detective Sally Bianco. Your husband has not been injured either, but your house was arsoned. A female body was recovered near the fireplace. Could you please arrange to fly home? We need your input in the investigation.”

  “I’ll be on the next flight out of Dallas. Tell Matilda we’ll talk then.” She hung up.

  “Excuse me just for a minute, Matilda.” Sally started to leave the witness room.

  “Before you go.” Matilda stood. “Bret doesn’t need to know about Tim, does he?”

  “That’s for you to determine with the help of your Maker.”

  In the station’s recording facility, Sally hugged John just to remind Sheriff Woods where her loyalties stood. Over John’s shoulder, she noticed Peter Masters in the window on the opposite side of the viewing room. Peter was answering his cell phone.

  Sheriff Woods witnessed the same action; but Sally was surprised because he chose to tease her. “Never got over your religious training, I see.”

  John’s back went up. He must have perceived more in the remark than even Sheriff Woods intended. “Her religion get in your way, did it?”

  “Once.” Sheriff Woods admitted.

  Sally changed the subject. “We might as well send Matilda home with her husband, but Peter still needs to be questioned.

  John said, “I didn’t hear Mrs. Masters ask about her husband.”

  Sheriff Woods scratched his full head of gray hair. “Seems I need a word with Tim, too.”

  “Remember when Tim introduced himself to you?” John asked Sally. John turned then to Sheriff Woods to explain, “We both thought Tim knew something he wanted to tell us at our wedding reception, when we said we were detectives.”

  “Maybe you should talk to him.” Sheriff Woods grumbled. “He seems to think a lot of Sally.”

  “She used to babysit for him, right, Sally?” John touched Sally’s shoulder to get her attention.

  “Sorry, thinking. Yes, I did babysit for the family. Tim’s not back, right? John, why don’t you ask Peter Masters what happened? I need to make some notes.”

  “I’ve known Peter long enough,” Sheriff Woods said. He plugged in an earpiece. “I’ll do it. Use this mike to cue me.”

  Sally’s head was spinning. “I could use a pot of coffee.”

  “Coming up.” They could hear Sheriff Woods direct the desk sergeant to take care of the coffee.

  Sipping on the fresh coffee, Sally and John observed the interview room where Peter held his head in his propped up arms. He didn’t move when Sheriff Woods entered the room.

  “Peter,” Sheriff Woods asked, “Tell me who the dead woman was.”

  Peter carefully placed his hands in his lap. “Should I ask for a lawyer?”

  “You certainly should, if you think you’re going to
be arrested.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Did you know the woman?”

  Peter nodded. “A trouble maker.” Sheriff Woods waited patiently for Peter to explain. Instead, Peter said, “I need to talk to my wife’s lawyer.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Standing in the viewing room, John’s index finger tapped the two-way mirror. “He thinks his wife killed the dead woman.”

  “And his wife thinks Tim Hanson is the dangerous one.” Sally looked at her watch. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Her second day in her hometown was wearing her out. “Peter’s not going to say anymore today.” Sally said into the microphone to the speaker in Sheriff Woods’ ear, “I need to go home and get my beauty nap.”

  Sheriff Woods nodded.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  John and Sally Nelson’s Home

  Back at their home just off Route 64, Sally approached John on the subject of naps. He hung up their coats, before answering, “I’ve only known you since you became a detective. You seemed to own the energy of a forty-year-old woman.”

  “Well, sixty-seven is not forty. Do you nap, usually?”

  “I did before I met you. I was trying to explain in my clumsy way.”

  “Not clumsy, at all,” Sally yawned. “The couch or the bedroom?”

  “Bedroom. I’ll start the gas fireplace in there.”

  As soon as Sally put her head on the pillow, the world realigned itself. After he laid down next to her, Sally pulled John’s hand up to her face, singing softly, “I’m not sick, I’m just in love.”

  John pulled a red wool blanket from the foot of the bed over both of them. Strange that the gas fire gave off a pine-smelling aroma. In her mid-day dream, Sally recalled the details of first meeting Art Woods as a teenager.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  May, 1957

  Just seventeen, Sally struggled to keep the nearly filled cart of returned books from knocking into students in the high-school library. She jumped a foot when Art tapped her shoulder. A senior, Art Woods, blessed her with his full smile. His winter tan broadcast he spent considerable time in an exotic spot for spring vacation. Of course, the book was overdue. Art did not want to pay the fine. During the school break, he said he couldn’t return the book. Sally’s face glowed as red as the embroidered cherries on her stupid sweater. “There is a book drop.” She glanced up to meet his beautiful brown eyes.